The devil amongst us

 

Several years ago, I wrote a young-adult mystery set at Arlington Downs Rracetrack during the Depression. Callie Shaw, a young girl, disguised herself as a boy to get a job as a stableboy, but the aunt with whom she lived cautioned, “The devil will be amongst us if racing comes to North Texas.” I loved the history behind the story and thought the aunt’s words made a perfect title. The publisher balked at “devil” and the book was published as Callie Shaw, Stableboy. Unimaginative.

While I don’t believe in the devil, I have to say some kind of demon occasionally gets into Sophie. It happened this morning. Our routine is that she wakes me when starvation is about to overcome her. If it’s 5:30 I gently tell her to go back to bed; if it’s 6:30, I let her out, feed her, and go back to bed—I’ve got it down so I can do all that in six minutes. We both go to sleep.

This morning, she didn’t want to sleep. Once fed, she barked and danced to go outside. Thinking it was a bathroom emergency I let her out and watched a blue/black streak across the yard to the hidden area between our house and the neighbors. Sophie was in full squirrel-hunting frenzy, racing around the yard, barking frantically. Not wanting to leave her unsupervised, I busied myself with morning chores—putting away last night’s dishes, checking emails, and so on. I sat at my desk with a piece of cheese handy and an eye out for when she came close. It took half an hour, but I got her in. Went back to bed.

Sophie has this usually cute thing she does when her metal water bowl is empty. She knocks it off the shelf onto the floor, it clatters, and I know to refill. It wasn’t cute this morning—the bowl still had water in it. She created a small lake in my tiny kitchen and proceeded to walk in it, so that she made muddy footprints everywhere. I mopped it up with a towel, refilled the water, and went back to bed.

Sophie was not content. I could hear her wandering around the bedroom. Then she decided it was time to go out, and she pawed at the bed. When that didn’t work, she began to throw herself at the bed, barking wildly. This went on for slightly over ten minutes. I want to tell you it takes self-discipline—or a lack of brains—to lie still during all this. I finally sat up and, in my sternest low voice, explained to her that she was being very naughty. She knew exactly what was going on—looked away but stole a glance at me every once in a while, wagged her tail hopefully. I had to repeat the performance once, and then, blessedly, peace came to the cottage. By then, it really was time for me to get up. I kept her in for a long while to be sure the exorcism had worked.

I remind myself that I often say I could not live without a dog. And now, excuse me. I need a nap.

Calm Sophie

Lost in a book

Okay, I confess. I didn’t blog last night because I was lost in a book and desperate to finish it. No, it wasn’t one of my own, though I sincerely wish I could tell you it was my current work-in-progress. No such luck—I’m only halfway through that one.

I was nearing the end of a Dick Francis horse-racing mystery, Wild Horses (2008). I’m a huge Dick Francis fan, though I’m puzzled to know why. His mysteries are all set in England’s racing country and feature characters who are either in the midst of the racing world or on the fringes. Many of his protagonists, always male, have grown up in racing but gone on to other careers—a film director, a chef, a journalist, etc. His most frequent protagonist, however, is Sid Halley, a former jockey.

I am not particularly intrigued with English mysteries, including those by Agatha Christie  who all cozy writers are supposed to recognize as the source of our genre. Shh—don’t tell on me. I usually like mysteries with female protagonists, and I am not at all drawn to the racing world. The only time I went to a horse race I nearly divorced my then-husband because he wagered all that money we didn’t have (and that was on the honeymoon! No wonder the marriage didn’t last.).

The only exception to my non-English criterion, besides Francis, is Deborah Crombie. But Deborah’s a born-and-bred-in-Texas girl who has been fascinated with England all her life and takes frequent research trips there. The result is that her series, about man-and-wife Scotland Yard officers, rings with authenticity. Note that she breaks a major unwritten rule right there—her characters are married!

Back to Francis, my mentor/friend Fred, who is also a great Francis fan, suggested my fascination is with the characters Francis writes about, but I can’t quite buy that. They are not people I would know or be drawn to in real life.

I think Francis has a way of drawing the reader into the mind of the narrator/protagonist, and his use of language is both clever and solid. In Wild Horses, which Fred claims is one of his favorites, the protagonist is a movie producer, filming about a young horse trainer’s wife who committed suicide by hanging thirty years earlier—or did she? The more he’s drawn into the story and meets the real-life characters, the more he doubts that suicide theory. An associated subplot, involving a man he knew as a child, leads him to pursue his doubts to a surprising conclusion.

Francis’ climactic scenes are often frighteningly real and grisly. The hero sometimes suffers unbelievable physical danger and harm, but this one was, to me, less of a nail-biter. Yet I finished the book, late last night, with a sense of satisfaction with the ending. All loose ends had been accounted for.

Dick Francis, himself once a jockey, died in 2010. In his last years, his son Felix, formerly his manager, became his co-author and maintained the quality of the books. Francis’ canon consists of over forty novels. If you haven’t read one yet, hurry online or to a bookstore or library and prepare yourself for absorbing reading. One of my prized possessions is a signed hardback. Francis used to winter in the Caymans, and when my son Colin lived there, he got the autographed book for me.

Thoughts on the Triiple Crown

I'm not a horse-racing fan. Okay, let's put it bluntly--I'm not particularly fond of horses. When I was about twelve, my parents gave my horseback lessons where we rode in a large group around an arena. I'm not sure that I particularly enjoyed it, but when I was kept from two lessons for some sort of behavioral indiscretion, I never wanted to go back. In my early twenties my step-niece tried to help me ride her Hackamore (?) pony (a medium size pony with a better disposition than most Shetlands). She kept saying, "Don't worry, Aunt Judy. I won't let you fall." I worried. Felt like I was slipping from one side to another.
In my forties, I had a good friend who took me to a horse trainer's stable one day. We walked out into the field amidst all the horses, and Bob said to Alan, the trainer, "She wouldn't do that for anyone else but you." Yep, I'm not comfortable around horses.
I'm also not at all sure about horse racing as a sport. A horse at the Belmont Stakes "fell apart" (whatever that means) during the race and had to be put down on the track. The number of deaths of racing horses each year is appalling. And yet I know for owners, trainers, and jockeys each horse is a great investment so I would think they take as good care as possible. We are told that the days of doping, etc., are over because of good policing. And yet I've read enough Dick Francis' novels to believe that some evil people lurk around racing stables.
Years and years ago I went to a race in Kentucky with my then new husband and was appalled at how much he wanted to bet (we were starving students). Ever after he claimed if I'd let him bet as he wanted we'd have come away much richer. I'm too Scottish for that. But my one impression was that it was all over too quickly you could hardly tell which horse did what. Obviously I write all this as an outsider looking in at the racing culture.
All that said, I watch the Belmont Stakes yesterday with my heart in my mouth. The idea of a triple crown winner after all those years was real excitement. And American Pharoah was such a beautiful, powerful horse--his long stride grace in motion--that you couldn't help cheering. It made me think of the pioneering photographic studies by Eadweard Muybridge of horses in motion. There was that one brief moment when it look like another horse (Frosted?) might surge to the fore, but then it was over and American Pharoah had won! Wow! Relief, excitement, joy--even from an outsider.
I probably won't watch another horse race for a long time, but that one was a high point in my day, even just sitting in front of the TV. I can't imagine the excitement of being in the crowd. And hats off to the jockey who will contribute his winnings to charity. Maybe horse racing is a part of American culture that I need to understand better.